


Resurrection

by KungfuChicken



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Redemption, Unfinished Business, winter is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:27:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KungfuChicken/pseuds/KungfuChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter is here. At the Gates of the Moon, Alayne Stone is not the only one hiding behind a fake identity. A certain septon would be more than happy to breathe fresh air, unfiltered by a shawl and a hood, again. Luckily for him, redemption might be just around the corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All these characters belong to George R. R. Martin.

Winter was here. There was still peace and prosperity in the Vale. So far, its inhabitants had only heard of the tales of fighting and hunger in the rest of Westeros. Compared to the rest of the realm the Vale had it good and could comfortably live a quiet life. The vast granaries and halls were full of food, mostly grain and vegetables of the durable sort. Meat and mead had also been stored in large quantities. The quantities of everything were in fact so large they would suffice well into spring. Talk among the people was, that the Lord Protector had promised them nobody would go hungry this winter. 

The people of the Vale were glad that their Lord Protector had provided so wonderfully for them and supported him wholeheartedly. They didn’t need to know that the Lord Protector intended to provide for himself, mostly. For his plan was, once the rest of the realm would be truly starving, to sell the precious food to the desperate nobles outside the Vale at outrageous prices. Prices nobody could afford and everybody needed to pay, if they preferred not to die of hunger. If everything went according to plan, come spring nearly every noble man in Westeros would have sold Petyr Baelish his soul, or preferably, his land and title for food to survive. And then his work here would finally be done. In his quiet moments he already pictured himself sitting in the comfortable chair by the fire, pouring himself some of the finest Arbor Gold from a priceless crystal flagon, swirling it idly in an equally priceless crystal goblet and reflecting leisurely on what he would like to do with the realm and its people, now that they were his. 

It was true, the clocks ticked differently in the Vale. Of course people outside the Vale started noticing. It was really no wonder that the tales of wealth, safety and peace started to attract people who weren't so lucky to already live here. The ones who survived the perilous journey through the mountain passes in winter were the fortunate ones. Not only had they to face the savage mountain clans, tales of frozen bodies lying under enormous snow piles in the mountains reached the ears of the Vale’s inhabitants too. They didn’t know what to make of these tales, or how to deal with these people who came uninvited, looking for the shelter and help most of the old inhabitants here were only reluctantly willing to give. It was winter after all and that meant it was every man for himself. 

Most refugees were looking for a way out of the bleak misery they had lived in before. Some were looking to make business. And then there was a small group of unsavory characters who only came for the booty. 

A couple of weeks ago people had first heard the story of a beast in human form that had looted and burned a secluded farmer, leaving none alive. There was no way to verify it. The Lord Protector decided to wait. 

Not long afterwards another story surfaced. A group of bandits, led by a monster with the head of a dog, had plundered a village not far from Redfort. After that it did not take long for more news to pop up as more and more villages and farmers between Redfort and the Gates of the Moon suffered vicious attacks by the seemingly insatiable brute. And now the Lord Protector decided it was time to react. He couldn’t have bandits plundering his people, especially not when there was talk going round that they were led by the Hound. 

By then the Vale knew what had happened in Saltpans. The Hound was a wanted man. The Lord Protector would be generous should someone catch the felon and deliver him alive. If the Lord Protector was presented with his severed head, he would be equally pleased.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with seemingly tame dogs, caution is advised.

Sandor Clegane had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, when he heard the tales. He drew a couple of labored breaths and then he disappeared through the door of their makeshift little house near the stables at the Gates of the Moon. They did not see him for the next couple of hours. When he came back he was sweating and exhausted, pulling a sledge with firewood that would last them for at least a week. He entered the little hut and stacked the wood neatly in a corner. Then he just went to his bed, drew the curtain they had installed for privacy and apparently fell asleep right away. Ser Jaime beckoned to a puzzled Brienne to leave Clegane be. If he decided to tell them, he would. There was no sense in prying. And true enough, after a few days Clegane had come to a conclusion. 

“I will be gone for some time. Don’t know how long. There is unfinished business I need to take care of.”

Jaime Lannister only nodded. He had been expecting it, ever since these stories of the Hound wreaking havoc in the Vale had surfaced and the Lord Protector had declared that a rich reward waited for volunteers who would help hunt the Hound and his bandits down. For the better part of the morning he had been watching Clegane pacing their little hut, packing bags, searching for food they could spare. It was useless to tell him to stay and let others do the deed. If Clegane was willing to take the risk of exposure he would not be swayed. It was personal after all. And frankly, Jaime Lannisters vengeful side would show too, if he heard rumors of someone committing crimes in his name. Apparently the threat the Lannisters were most famous for, applied to other people as well. 

Clegane had donned chain mail and weapons underneath his monks robe. Just when he ducked to get out of the door, he turned around. He wasn’t a man of many words and although they had gotten to know each other better than they ever would have cared before, Clegane always kept a certain distance. 

“I am tired of hiding behind a monks attire!” was all he said. 

After this unusual confession from Clegane, Jaime followed him to the stables and helped him prepare Stranger. The stallion was used to him by now, but Jaime still felt some uneasiness when he was near this magnificent but unpredictable horse. Much like he felt himself tiptoeing around its grumpy owner sometimes, as if being afraid to wake a slumbering beast. 

When the searching party had left the Gates of the Moon to pursue the bandits, Jaime went back to their hut. Waiting was all they could do now. He was not a pious man, otherwise a prayer to the gods might have eased his mind. 

Sandor Clegane was on a quest similar to his own. This was his last chance for honor too. Funny, how they both were determined to fight to the death for their lost honor now. They could have had it so much easier by not making the wrong decisions in the first place. He couldn’t say for Clegane but Jaime knew very well when and where he himself had digressed from the honorable path. But what would happen if they really restored their honor? Would they even notice that it was back in place? Would they be happy then? Would they finally get the approval they so craved? Would they ever be granted a time in their lives when all would be well?

As soon as you killed a “Hound” the next one reared its ugly head, which often turned out to be even worse than the last. Brienne might have killed the impostor responsible for Saltpans. Obviously there had been someone stupid enough, just waiting to get a hold on that cursed helm and carry on where the former owner couldn’t finish. 

Clegane might have had his edges polished and his rage soothed on the Quiet Isle. But as soon as the stories of this false Hound came up, Jaime had sensed him change. Now Clegane had gotten wind of something and he would not rest until he had hunted down his prey. The Hound might be gone but if you gave Sandor Clegane a good enough reason, he was still a dangerous man.


	3. Chapter 3

If it made no difference to him anyway, he would not be sitting hidden underneath a big fir tree, freezing his balls off in the snow, waiting for some lousy bandits to finally show up. But to him it meant all the difference in the world. The Hound had done many disreputable things in his time. But he never looted, raped or burned. He had not done it because he knew it was what his accursed brother thrived in. He had not done it because it made him the better man. He was aware that this was an easy feat to achieve. Most men in the seven kingdoms were better than his brother. That didn’t require much of an effort. But he always had to make the effort. His sanity depended on it.

But thanks to the goddamn bastard who had dared to steal his helm, his reputation had been dragged into the mud beyond retrieval. He wanted nothing more than to get a hold on this rotten son of a bitch and squeeze the last breath out of him slowly and painfully. Ever since he had heard of the Hound and his bandits invading the Vale, he felt red rage flowing through his veins like poison. It was like the old days. His demons were back. 

They heard the muffled sound of horses and men. He sensed his pulse going faster and gripped his sword. It would be his first real fight since the one at the inn at the crossroads. He had trained with Brienne, he knew when and where his right leg was weak and would probably remain so. But he was by no means rusty. Now it was time for him to find out if the Hound really was no more. As soon as his sword met the enemy’s steel with a mighty clang, he knew. 

It had been short and ugly. Of course the bandits were surprised that someone had discovered them, they always were somehow. As if they couldn’t imagine that people wanted justice. They stood no chance against thirty battle hardened and well nourished soldiers. The white snow was splashed with red. The dead ones were left to rot. About ten prisoners were to face trial at the Gates of the Moon, their leader the false Hound, among them. As they were making their way back, they kept limping in between them. All of the prisoners were ragged, stinking and practically jumping with fleas. 

Sandor could only shake his head in disgust, looking at the big brawny man in a faded cloak of yellow colour. He had a blackened and badly dented helm the shape of a snarling dog perched lopsidedly on his head. He knew the man. He had seen him in Beric Dondarrions cave, heard him brag about his prowess in battle. Lem Lemoncloak, he was called. So the loudmouthed idiot with his piss-colored cloak from the Brotherhood without Banners had somehow managed to steal his helm and played at being the Hound. Some games were best not played at all. 

Lemoncloak was staggering in front of him, not far away. He was still wearing that ugly thing (had it really always been that hideous?) because it was so badly dented it could not be removed without a blacksmith. Sandor realized that in a way it was like looking at himself and it felt strange. Was that how he would have ended up, had Polliver not caught him in the leg at the inn, then? He surely had been up to no good and on the road to hell until his leg wound had changed his fate so drastically. This scenario of his own outcome once had been very probable and it felt strange to witness his own future, something that could have happened, had things taken another course. This could have been him and he suddenly was very grateful it was not him there, staggering through the snow with his hands and feet bound together, disgraced and dishonored, without hope of escaping a trial that almost certainly would result in his death. At this moment he was very aware that he had been given a rare gift. He had been given a fresh start. Now he just had to make sure he did not waste it.

And from what he found out about himself today, this would be quite the challenge. He had not lied to the blood-thirsty little she-wolf when he told her he had not lost his belly for fighting. And today he had received the confirmation that fighting was still the thing he excelled at. It was still the game he knew how to play best. He still felt the rush of power a sharp blade and a swift striking blow could give him. The look of sheer terror upon the faces of his opponents still gave him grim satisfaction. He still could hack his way through armor and flesh with absurd ease. Elder Brother would not like it, should he ever hear about it. He had not changed so much for the better after all, had he? 

On the Quiet Isle he had learned that he could live without fighting, that holding a sword was not his only purpose, that he was more than a ruthless killing machine. But this had been on the Quiet Isle and life had been ridiculously simple in comparison. Now there was no Elder Brother here to guide him through treacherous currents and decisions of moral ambiguity. He was on his own and it was not easy to face the world and try to be a better man when the world had not changed for the better at all. In fact, it seemed to get worse and more complicated by the day. The only straw he could grasp, was the knowledge that the Hound was still there inside of him. And he had to try with all his might to make him stay in there. Sometimes the monster was buried so deeply he could almost forget it was there, sometimes it lurked just beneath the surface, like today. The Hound would be with him as a constant reminder of what he was capable of, if he gave in and let his demons take over. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't follow HBO's Game of Thrones. The books are enough for me. I don't like my headcanons destroyed by directors who never get it right anyway :-). But I do indulge in the occasional snippet on YouTube every now and then. And since a certain Non-Ser appears to be still very much alive and kicking in the show, there might be hope for a comeback of the Hound turned Gravedigger in the books! I am aware that the books and the show might not have much in common by the end of season 6 (what am I talking about, it started loooong before season 6!), but there is still hope!

A gasp went through the crowd when the dented helm was removed by the local blacksmith. The face underneath it was an ordinary one. The nose had been broken at some point. The beard was scrubby, the teeth were crooked. The hair was a dull brown, sweaty and plastered to his skull. The man was big and brawny, an impressive figure with broad shoulders, standing taller than most. Everyone in the crowd attending the Hounds trial was holding their breath. 

“But this is not the Hound!”

The young Lord Robert Arryn shouted and straightened up in his chair, pointing a thin finger at the man standing in the center of the great hall. Everyone who had been at court in Kings Landing and had seen the real Hound with his own eyes knew it to be true. The Hounds signature burns covering the left side of his face were missing. Only brown stubble covered the man’s left cheek. People might be fooled by the helm but without it, this was just a common bandit. Nothing nearly as juicy as the Lannister’s loyal dog turned rabid. It looked like this trial would turn from spectacular to routine soon enough. The first spectators already began to look for the nearest door to sneak out.

And it was over rather quickly. Lem Lemoncloak, as the man was really called, would gain instant but fleeting fame with his trial. He readily confessed to looting and burning in the Vale. The only thing really noteworthy of the whole trial was the story of how he came in the possession of the infamous helm. Lem Lemoncloak took the helm from a dead man named Rorge. And Rorge had stolen the helm about three years ago from a fresh grave which presumably contained the remains of the real Hound, rotting in the rain soaked ground at the banks of the Trident near its mouth. As soon as Rorge had put on the helm, he had called himself the new Hound and started plundering, raping and burning everything in sight with his bandits, including the town of Saltpans. When Rorge was killed, Lem claimed the helm and continued where Rorge could no longer do so. After some time there was no more booty to be stolen from the war-ravaged Riverlands and Lem and his men had decided to come for the Vale, hoping for better business there. As Lem ended his tale it became clear that Sandor Clegane had been accused wrongly. But it did not matter any longer. The real Hound had disappeared without a trace. Most likely it was now up to the Seven to judge whatever evil he had done during his lifetime. Still, the Lord Protector publicly declared him innocent of all the crimes Rorge and Lem Lemoncloak had committed in his name. Lem Lemoncloak and his bandits on the other hand, were to be hanged the following day without further ado. The Hound was officially redeemed. Sandor Clegane was no longer a wanted man in the Vale. At this point Alayne Stone was seized by a violent coughing fit that had everyone looking worriedly in her direction. 

The Lord Protector could not declare the Hound innocent of deserting his king and his duty during the Battle of Blackwater. But since said king was dead and his mother publicly disgraced and no longer in charge of anything, the Lord Protector deemed it superfluous to write to Kings Landing and set the record straight. The Lord Protector was certain that they had bigger problems to deal with at court. And Petyr Baelish was not too keen to remind the new king and his council that he still existed and could be summoned to the capital. He seemed forgotten and left to his own devices here in the Vale. It would be such an inconvenience if the crown claimed his service in the capitol once more. 

In the evening it was Sweetrobins turn to tell Alayne a story. He willingly complied because finally he had something new and exciting to tell.

“Oh I have seen the Hound many times in Kings Landing. He indeed was big and fearsome! Mother hated him! She couldn’t stand to look at him. She said his burns were so ugly they made her sick.”

“But surely she was exaggerating?” Alayne sounded a little indignant. 

“Well, I sometimes dared to peek at him when he wasn’t looking. Because I don’t think you can get sick just from looking at someone, no matter how ugly that person is. But mother was right the Hound looked very scary! If I had a sworn sword like that, no one would dare trying to harm me because everybody would be afraid of him and he would kill them all!” 

Sweetrobin sounded rather enthusiastic. Of course the boy had no idea. But Alayne remembered that this had been exactly what Sandor Clegane had once said to a girl named Sansa Stark. 

“What is it Alayne? You look strange.”

“Sweetrobin I am just thinking about what a lonely and sad life this must be if everyone is afraid of you. If people just want you around to scare undesirable company away and do their bidding, whatever atrocious thing that might be.” 

“I don’t think the Hound minded very much. Who needs friends, if you are one of the most feared warriors in the kingdom anyway?”

Sweetrobin spoke with the confidence only nine year old boys have. 

“We will never know what the Hound thought. But what I do know is that no one wants to be alone and friendless all the time. To be the most feared warrior in the kingdom just isn’t enough, sometimes.”

The day had been a long one and soon Sweetrobin was sound asleep. Alayne slipped out of his room and went to the stables. There she waited beside the enclosed compartment of a big, black, bad-tempered stallion she had patiently bribed into behaving with apples, carrots and kindness. She knew its owner would arrive soon and tend to the courser. As she waited she felt glad that the days of being friendless and alone in this world were over for both Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark. 

“Girl, you shouldn’t be sitting alone in a dark stable! Some people might get the wrong ideas!”

Lately he did not sound like a friend but more like an irritated father admonishing his unruly adolescent daughter to use more common sense. 

“I was careful. No one saw me. I know what I am doing. And besides, I was well guarded.”

She shot a sideward glance at Stranger who only snorted and continued munching hay. She hated how feeble her excuse sounded. And when exactly had she begun to sound like an adolescent irresponsible daughter? Clegane was right of course. Sitting alone in a dark stable really was a stupid idea, especially for a bastard girl. No matter if her father was the Lord Protector of the Vale himself. Mya Stone would second that realization in a heartbeat. Just because she wanted to congratulate Clegane to his new freedom did not mean she should become careless. 

“What are you going to do, now that your reputation is restored?”

He stopped brushing Stranger and mulled over her question.

“Reputation restored or not, I’m still a dead man, aren’t I? It would be no use if I threw my monks robes aside and strutted into the courtyard, presenting myself on a silver platter. I might not be the mad dog of Saltpans any longer but there are still plenty of people who would prefer me dead. And all the others might not stomach the sighting of a ghost too well. Best keep my head down for a while longer. ”

She nodded. It seemed like the most sensible thing to do. Maybe it was not what he had hoped for. But it was the safest way to stay alive. They both knew better than to expect to get what they had hoped for. And besides, great caution was required whenever Petyr Baelish was involved.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While I enjoy SanSan, I think Sandor Clegane might be more of a father figure to both the Stark girls in the long run. He starts out as completely unfit and unprepared for the role of course. But somehow he ends up caring for those girls anyway with whatever meagre means he has to offer because he feels he must. In this story the interest is shifting from romantic to platonic on both sides. Having teenaged daughters is rough!

This girl would be the death of him! Traipsing alone in dark stables long after it could be deemed acceptable for a respectable maiden, baseborn or not. She had already had this annoying habit back in Kings Landing. The number of times he had caught her outside her safe cage at night! But this here was not Winterfell where Lord Eddard Starks daughter could be sure to go unmolested anywhere she wanted, anytime she pleased. This was the Gates of the Moon and she was no safer here than she had been in Kings Landing, a traitor’s daughter. Here she was known as a bastard girl, fair game for any man who felt his groin itching, no matter if she was the Lord Protectors offspring.

He had probably told her a hundred times. And a hundred times she had not listened. The little bird had a mind of her own and was just as stubborn as her sister the wild little she-wolf! She managed to hide her it well behind charm and impeccable good manners, but once she had decided upon something, nothing would make her back down. The days when he would or could scare her into doing what he wanted were over. He did not want or enjoy her being scared of him, he never did. But he wanted her to be safe. So he just kept repeating over and over to use her common sense. He knew she had it but somehow she chose always to do the opposite of what he told her to. At least she did not glare at him, constantly thinking up ways of how to best kill him, like her younger sister had. Seven hells, trying to look after the Stark sisters proved as exhausting as looking after a lively litter of untrained puppies! Just business as usual, keeping the well-bred but willful offspring of dead noblemen out of trouble, he thought wryly. Hunting the bandits had been a welcome diversion. The only person he had to watch was himself. And to himself he seemed perfectly predictable and reliable, at least compared to highborn children and their crazy notions about suitable pastimes. Maybe Lord Eddard Starks constant morose look did not only stem from King Roberts antics, courtly intrigue or politics but from having sired six children as well. 

The bandits were taken. Now they were damned again to doing nothing and waiting for fate to turn in their favor. Their plan up to this day was to keep their precious find safe and out of trouble here at the Gates of the Moon. Had it been up to him, he would have started keeping her safe with chopping off Littlefingers wormy paws. The bugger kept touching his “daughter” in a manner that did not seem inappropriate. But the looks Petyr Baelish gave Alayne while doing so set Cleganes teeth on edge every time he witnessed an encounter of the Lord Protector and his daughter. Sandor Clegane was no fortuneteller but he could predict with absolute confidence that Baelishs character would improve greatly once his head was properly separated from his neck! He just knew he would do mankind a great favor by making Littlefinger disappear but unfortunately it would cause them too much trouble. The Vale still needed Baelish, he did an excellent job of running it. Young Robert Arryn was not fit to rule alone for many years to come. He might as well learn something useful from Littlefinger while he was at it. But from what he had heard Alayne tell of the boy, he seemed to have his head in the clouds and full of stories and absolutely no interest whatsoever in learning how to guide his people through difficult times. But the young Lord Robert Arryn was not his responsibility, he could at least be thankful for that! 

But lately there was something else that worried him. It came in the form of a shady little runt. His name was Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen. And the half-wit had styled himself with the moniker “the Mad Mouse”. He was small but cocky, strutting about the place, practically bursting with more self-confidence than was good for him. It was no wonder Sandor could not stand the bugger!  
The one thing that irked him most about Ser Shadrich was that he kept popping up in places he had no business being. Much like he himself used to, Sandor had to admit. In conclusion the annoying mouse had to be looking for something. And it was not a slice of cheese or a bit of bacon either. The Mad Mouse kept on hinting heavily about a sack of gold he hoped to stumble upon here. And was not a bag of gold the price Cersei Lannister had promised to the one who delivered her Sansa Stark neatly bound and gagged, ready for trial? And had not Brienne told him that she already had met Shadrich before, who had readily admitted at the occasion to be looking for Sansa Stark?

He best keep an eye on the Mad Mouse then. Shadrich might not have proof yet that the lovely Alayne Stone was indeed Sansa Stark. But the way the bandy-legged menace leered at the Lord Protectors supposed daughter did not bode well. Shadrich did not make the impression of a man who had qualms about abducting a pretty girl he thought was worth a bag of gold dragons. And he did not seem to be a man who worried too much about verifying his suspicions before taking action. Alayne Stone interacted freely with Shadrich. He was in her father’s service. Why should she avoid him? True, Alayne Stone was not as guileless as Sansa Stark used to be. But she was still far too trusting for Sandors taste. Had she been his daughter he would have her watched at all times, or even better, locked her up in her chamber and then forgetting about where he had put the key. And he would rather burn to a crisp in the seven hells than to allow some lousy hedge-knight to steal his newly found princess from under his nose!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing exercise: Write something about the cold because you are literally melting from the summer heat.

The snow was lying like a thick cover over everything. When the sun deigned to make an appearance the whole Vale was bathed in its light, making the surroundings sparkle like diamonds. On those days all was well. Winters beauty was obvious. The sun made everything easier to bear. 

But the sun had not been seen in the Vale for quite some time. The sun seemed a thing from the past, an old legend. Most days were spent in grey, gloomy twilight. Sometimes the mere memory of warmth and how it had felt, brought tears to peoples eyes. The danger of freezing to death was everywhere and constant. Almost everyone had lost someone they loved to the implacable cold. Not even the old ones remembered a winter so severe. There was no end in sight, no hope in the form of the first signs of thawing. Every day was spent with breathing air so cold the lungs hurt. Every day was lived in the fear that the fire could go out and never be rekindled. Every day meals were eaten with a worried frown at the thought of how long the food would last. Every day the simplest chores became a toil because the cold and the snow made them much harder to accomplish. 

When it had started snowing, now it seemed years and years ago, people and especially the children had loved to play with the fluffy white cover that made everything seem so soft. They fought epic battles with snowballs around castles built of snow. They excavated sledges from attics and were sliding down the steep hills of the Vale endlessly. The ice on lakes and on rivers was scratched and dented from the blades of ice skates. First winter had been fun. Now they were smarter. Children did not play outside any longer. 

People huddled in front of their fires in their houses, huts and castles, looking for warmth amongst themselves when no warmth could be found outside. The days were short and the nights seemed endless. Longer than anybody was able to remember. They were spent in fear of waking up next to a body frozen and coated in frost or not waking up at all. Old forgotten legends began to surface, each new one more terrifying than the last. They spoke of a never-ending night, corpses that walked the land with terrible blue eyes that knew no mercy for all things living. There were rumours about dragons across the narrow sea. People were afraid of something more powerful than any army, of a threat that could not be answered with weapons, of an enemy who had yet to show himself but when he did, it would be too late.  
Most nights wolves were howling, coming nearer and nearer to farms, villages, towns and castles. Hunger drove them and made them forget their fear of humans. Hunger made them chase everything that moved. 

The Vale, once so proud of not being involved in the war that was going on in the rest of the realm, was in the death grip of winter. The mountains that had kept war and trouble away now confined the people to the very places many of them desperately dreamed of leaving for warmer regions. People felt trapped and crushed in between the high, looming mountains in whose shadows they had spent their entire life and had felt safe before. 

The Lord Protector was not praised as much as he used to be. The angry murmur could not be silenced that he let his people starve while he lived on the fat of the land. Had the Lord Protector not piled up vast quantities of food? Where was it ? Why did he not distribute it to those who needed it, to his people? More often than not people reminded themselves that he was but a greedy upstart with no idea of honour and duty like a true nobleman. Warm words were used when reminiscing about the reign of Lord Jon Arryn who would not have let his people starve in times of need. Even foolish claims could be heard that Jon Arryn would have prevented this horrible winter from happening. People spoke kindly of Lady Lysa Tully, his widow, wishing she had not died. People started to worry that the Lord Protector would treat their true Lord, young frail Robert Arryn badly. It was plain to see for everybody by now that there was no love lost between stepfather and stepson. All would have been well if only the Lady Lysa had married someone from the Vale instead of Petyr Baelish. Whispers of rebellion and mutiny could be heard around the fires that kept the cold and the terror at bay and they kept getting stronger the longer winter lasted. 

The Lord Protector did not care to know what was whispered behind his back. His daughter Alayne had pointed out the danger of rebellion once, for she too had heard the whispers and she cared. He had smiled benignly at her, telling her that the smallfolk could gossip all it wanted, it was of no importance to him. He would not be where he was now, had he ever cared to listen to dumb peasants. Alayne was a good girl with a kind heart. But a kind heart was not enough to bring plans to fruition. For plans you needed cunning, determination and ruthlessness. Alayne would do well to remember that and stop worrying about her father not being loved by the smallfolk. Alayne cared too much for love. She should know by now that love was a luxury the likes of him and her should not indulge in. From that day on Alayne remained silent but always listened to the murmurs and whispers whenever she heard them. Because no matter what her father kept preaching, she continued to believe that deeds done out of love or care or responsibility brought better results than deeds done out of mere calculation. The day her father announced he was going to Gulltown despite the desolate state of the roads and the danger of travelling in winter, she did not advise him against taking this trip. Petyr Baelish wanted to meet a grain trader from Volantis. Alayne knew that profitable business was the air her father breathed. Who was she to keep him from it? Petyr Baelish mounted his luxurious carriage and Alayne Stone kissed him and waved him goodbye like the dutiful daughter she was. As soon as the carriage had disappeared she gave a sign to the watchmen to close and barricade the gates. All kinds of unsavory caracters were roaming the Vale these days. The gods forbid that they enter the Gates of the Moon.


End file.
